Monster
by endsoftime
Summary: Sanji had no idea what he'd created. And honestly, he doesn't really mind. Can be considered a follow-up to The Way to a Man's Heart.
1. Monster, Part One

As he lay there, arms and legs tied to the wooden table, blindfold casting his vision in utter darkness, pants mysteriously missing, and his shirt hanging limply open from his shoulders, Sanji briefly wondered what the fuck he'd accidentally managed to create.

He supposed, if he was truly fair about all this, that it was partly his fault. He had, after all, been dumb enough to confess to the swordsman one night when the booze was plentiful and the evening fairly quiet, that Sanji really got off on being surprised by his lover. There was something strangely kinky to him about not knowing what was going to happen, of feeling overwhelmed, of losing control. Of being at someone else's mercy.

Upon hearing this, Zoro merely grunted and took another sip of grog, looking painfully uninterested, only tired and maybe a little buzzed. The remark was quickly passed over, neither one of them thinking it all that important, and they soon picked up their tried-and-true bickering long into the early morning. The topic of the cook's turn-on's went pretty much forgotten.

Sanji had never been gifted with much tolerance for alcohol, and had apparently drank a bit too much that night and passed out on the kitchen table at some point, because when he woke up, he was quite certain he wasn't in his hammock. Instead, he noticed the hard, solid surface he lay on, felt the disconcerting bite of ropes against the flesh of his wrists and knees, felt the strain of his legs forcibly spread open, took in the inky blackness of the world around him, the draft against his naked legs and torso, and decided something was rather amiss.

Perhaps he should have explained himself better.

Perhaps he should have made it clear to that brain-damaged marimo that there was a definite difference between "surprise" and "_WHAT THE FUCK_!?"

This was most certainly the latter.

"O-oi…sh-shitty-swordsman…what the fuck is this?" Sanji asked, hating that his voice came out like a breathy whisper.

There was a low, rumbling sound in his ear, suddenly and inexplicably, and Sanji shuddered and tried to jerk away from it.

"_You_ were the one who said they liked to be surprised," that voice murmured, quiet but for the rough slide of sin across its tone.

Calloused fingers trailed lightly over his bare chest, goose bumps raising on every inch of skin, and Sanji bit his lip and tried not to gasp. Those rough digits never lingered, feathery and fleeting, teasing the sensitive flesh of a single nipple, coaxing it gently into a hardened nub, blood flowing faster, not from panic, but from something more electric. Sanji eeked a small noise in the back of his throat, and he hated it but couldn't help it, couldn't seem to keep his composure as another hand joined the other in its slow, unhurried exploration of his stomach, and thighs and _oh fuck_ his feet, and before he even realized it, his breaths were coming in quick pants, there was a desperate heat between his legs, a tremor in his muscles, pathetic noises falling unbidden from his lips, and he'd never been undone this quickly before, couldn't remember feeling this helpless, never knowing where the next touch would fall, sounds and scents surrounding him and he couldn't get a hold on a anything but the edge of the table, couldn't help but arch into it, couldn't help that he wanted more, and couldn't do anything to make Zoro give it to him.

He growled and swore and jerked against his bindings, rolling his hips against nothing, demanding something harder and more real.

All he got were taunting snickers and a brief slide of a wet tongue over his ear.

It was too much, too much all over and not where he needed it, the heavy pulsing of his cock burning hotter with every dance of warm fingers over his shivering flesh, and Sanji thrashed his head back and forth, needing an escape, needing more, but getting neither.

Nails scratched lightly and it was better, but not enough, and he was whimpering now, broken calls of Zoro's name, and muttered curses, helplessly humping the air. The wrist of one of those fleeting hands accidentally brushed his cock, and Sanji groaned loud, head slamming back against the table, flexing his thighs open further and _begging_. Fuck, he was _begging_ now. But he didn't care. He needed it.

A sharp slap to the side of his exposed ass, white-hot and _painful_, and Sanji screamed this time, trembling so hard he felt his stomach churn, muscles seizing, back arching clear off the table, demonstrating just how flexible the cook could be, and teeth suddenly bit his neck hard, the pain pooling blood in his gut and shooting fire through his veins, pelvis thrusting upwards, seeking some sort of resistance, contact of any kind, nails scraping down his back, choking on sobs of pleasure as he squeezed his eyes shut, catching the black fabric in the creases, feeling himself teetering on the edge, wrists rubbed raw, no blood in his lower legs, and he didn't care, all of it just made him twist harder and moan louder, and fuck – oh god, he – fingers gripping his ass, molding it, tongue lapping at his hip bone, and a sin, perfect luscious sin whispering to him, pushing him higher, pushing him over, and – oh, oh fuck, oh _god_! – one last harsh slap to his thigh, hand barely brushing the head of his oozing cock, and – and…

"_Come_."

Sanji arched high enough to snap the bindings on his knees, ear-splitting scream splintering his throat, vision flashing a fierce white before everything went still, and silent, and black again.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

When Sanji came to, he was unsurprised to find himself alone, blindfold-less, and still tied to the table. He was surprised, however, to see one of his smaller cooking knives lying on the bench just beside the table, with a little scrap of paper fixed to the handle. The cook grabbed the knife between his toes and brought his foot towards his face to read the note. That bastard's uneven scrawl was unmistakable, arrogant even in writing:

Surprised?

A monster. Sanji had created a monster.

But as he gripped the knife tighter, and, thanking god for his flexibility training, began sawing through the ropes binding his wrists, feeling the sticky warmth still wet against his stomach, Sanji sighed and realized he didn't honestly give a shit.


	2. Monster, Part Two

Sanji had never been particularly good at sharing things. Sure, he could share a meal with a starving man, and he'd sell his soul to any beautiful woman who happened to be buying, but when it came down to things that really mattered, things that Sanji really considered _his_, well…

He lay curled up on the couch down in the boy's cabin, glaring into the thick darkness. He couldn't see the bastard, but he could hear his soft, steady footsteps as he moved around the room, going through the well-worn routine without falter, like a dance: check each corner, around the mast, tap the floorboard that squeaked near Usopp's hammock, stamp three times, check under the throw rug, stamp once more, and then issue the report. It was tried and true, and Sanji could go through the steps in his _sleep_, he'd done it so many times, but tonight was Zoro's turn.

And it was pissing him off.

He knew it shouldn't, he was old enough to not _need_ something like that, hadn't needed it, in fact, since he was three or something, but fuck if that even mattered, because right now it was _late_, and Sanji was _tired_, and he was _pissed_, and he _did_ need it, for some weird-ass reason, but that _asshat_ was taking his sweet-fucking time, and –

"Sorry," a deep voice whispered low just then, and Sanji felt a warm, bare torso slide under the covers next to him. "Chopper wanted--"

"I know!" Sanji hissed, and promptly flipped over on the narrow couch, turning his back on his green-haired lover.

There was a brief pause, where Sanji could practically _feel_ the swordsman rolling his eyes at what a goddamned baby the cook was acting like, so he just hunched his shoulders and tried not to give a shit. It wasn't really working; only pissing him off more.

The weight on the cushions shifted slightly, and he felt Zoro slowly wrap himself around the blonde's thin frame, muscled arms holding him close as warm breath wafted soothingly over his neck, and he tried with every ounce of self-control he possessed not to melt into the embrace.

"What the hell are you all pissy about, idiot?"

Sanji growled and elbowed the fucker hard in his firm chest. A soft grunt rustled the short hairs on his nape.

"What the fuck, dartboard-brow!" Zoro muttered, worming a hand between them to check for damages. "I haven't done a damn thing! What is your problem?"

"I don't have a problem!" Sanji muttered into the pillow, trying hard to convince himself that he _wasn't fucking whining_. "It's late, asshole, that's all. I'm tired. Now quit bothering me and go to sleep!"

With that he hunkered deeper into the couch, eyes clenched shut and determined to go to sleep, goddamnit!

A long silence followed, the whole room was utterly still and Sanji thought maybe Zoro had decided to just shrug it off and go to bed; was nearly convinced that he had, except for the distinct lack of roaring snores all around him.

Slowly he cracked an eye open as a cooling dread sunk in. Oh no_…_

"Oi.."

Oh shit…

"Oi, cook…"

He could _hear_ that goddamn smirk…

"…You can't fall asleep if I'm not in bed, can you?"

Sanji made a dangerous noise in the back of his throat. Arms shook him slightly, the fucker totally unperturbed as always about the blonde's threats, verbal or otherwise.

"Can you?" that smug voice pressed.

He dug his nails into the forearm across his chest and said nothing, body tense and trying to pull away from the swordsman's hold. He was _not_ going to discuss this…

Zoro stilled abruptly then, and Sanji couldn't even imagine what the bastard was thinking now, but he knew he probably wouldn't like it, would never live it down, would seem stupid and immature and _weak_ in his eyes, and he sort of wanted to hide, but really it just pissed him off, because he shouldn't _care_ what the asshole thought, and yet…

A soft kiss just below his ear and those strong arms turned him back around like he weighed nothing, and to Zoro, he probably didn't. Sanji withdrew further, glaring hard at the tanned collar bone mere inches from his nose and wishing he were anywhere but on that couch.

"Hey."

Sanji blinked, brow smoothing a centimeter at the change in tone that caught him so off guard he forgot to resist the rough fingers that gently raised his chin, drawing his eyes up into a dark, deep gaze.

"Can you?"

An honest question this time, all ribbing and torment aside, and no, Sanji wasn't going to explain it, and yes, Zoro understood anyway, and he wasn't laughing or cringing in disgust, so he figured he didn't need to worry about it anymore.

And, goddamnit, he was tired.

So, bringing his arms up and twining them around that gorgeous neck, Sanji whispered low and secretive.

"Next time Chopper wants to check the cabin for monsters, make Usopp do it." He pulled the grinning swordsman close, lips brushing just the faintest, and he didn't bother to stop the way his own quirked at the corners.

"I like my monster _in_ my bed."


	3. Monster, Part Three

Sanji sat on the infirmary table, trying not to fall asleep from sheer boredom; it was only a few cuts, Sanji hadn't even known they were there until a breeze blew by and he felt the cool dampness where the blood had soaked through his shirt sleeve. But, of course, Chopper had insisted on treating it, even though the bleeding had already stopped, even though it didn't hurt, even though Sanji had shit to do; anyway, he knew better than to tell the little reindeer his business. Although he'd quite like a cigarette.

And being watched by a large, green-haired hawk wasn't exactly soothing on the nerves, either.

Zoro sat across the room from Sanji on a crate, eyes closed, and for all intents and purposes totally unconscious…except that Sanji knew better. The curve of his broad shoulders was just a shade too tense; his brow creased almost imperceptibly. He was most definitely awake, and most definitely glaring at Sanji from under his closed lids.

_Asshole's such a bad actor…_

"I know you're awake, shit-swordsman," Sanji said, gnawing on a cold cigarette 'til he got his hand back from Chopper to light it.

A low growl, and a single, dark eye cracked open to glower in the cook's direction.

Sanji sighed. The shit he had to put up with some times.

"What are you so pissed about?"

Zoro shifted slightly. "I'm not pissed."

"Fuckin' liar."

The next growl was slightly louder. "Do you _want_ to die, jackass?"

"STOP!" Chopper cried suddenly, making Zoro jump a little, and Sanji nearly swallowed his cigarette. "I know you guys are gonna fight no matter what, but -- " and here he pointed a cloven hoof in Sanji's face, and somehow managed to look intimidating, " – at least save it until after I'm done mending your arm. And take it outside!"

Both men were suitably cowed, and stayed utterly silent for the rest of Sanji's treatment. Chopper had finished the stitching, had rubbed some clear shit on the raw wound that made the surrounding skin go cool and numb, and was in the process of wrapping up the cook's forearm, when the roll of bandages abruptly ran out.

"Aw," the reindeer frowned, staring at the end of the wrap that was much too short to cover the wound. He sighed slightly. "I'll go get some more. I'll be _right back_! So don't _do anything stupid_!"

Sanji and Zoro remained blank-faced and innocent under their doctor's suspicious gaze, but the little fuzz ball eventually backed slowly out of the room, never taking his eyes off them until the door swung shut.

Both men let out a small breath of air. Sanji glanced over at the swordsman then; he was staring at a spot on the wall just over the cook's shoulder. He had that irritating frown, and the way his lip curved down just slightly…he obviously had something to say, but in typical Zoro-fashion, he was too fucking retarded to actually say anything without Sanji dragging it tooth-and-nail out of him.

Again the blonde huffed, staring cross-eyed at his cigarette and wondering if moving his partially bandaged hand to light the fucker would mess the binding up enough for Chopper to notice when he got back.

_Goddamn marimo…so goddamn frustrating, I need a pack n' a half to just sit in the same goddamn room as him…_

"Oi," that deep voice said, low and oddly neutral, given how bothered the dumbass looked.

Sanji looked up, frowning slightly. "What?"

"Why do you have to be so damn dumb all the time?"

Sanji blinked.

He blinked some more.

Then he got pissed.

"What the fuck!" he exploded, cigarette sent flying across the room. "Why am _I_ so dumb? What about you, asshole? If you got something to say, just fucking say it before I come over there and rearrange your ugly fucking face!"

"How the hell did you let your arm get fucked up?"

Sanji 'tched', vaguely irritated. "So one of the fuckers got lucky. It happens sometimes."

"Not to you, it doesn't."

"There were about fifteen of them," the cook growled, fishing around for another cigarette with his good hand. "Plus I had groceries to worry about."

"So why didn't you put them down?"

"What the fuck is your problem!?" Sanji cried in frustration, glaring hard at Zoro, his smoke forgotten halfway to his mouth. "I told you, they got a lucky hit in! It just happens! They were fucking nobodies!"

"Then why were you fighting them in the first place?"

Sanji blinked, confusion deflating him somewhat. Zoro was frowning hard at him, his dark gaze steady and unrelenting. Why was he so damn persistent? Why the fuck did he need to know? It wasn't any of his goddamn business! Asshole would just make fun of Sanji anyway; probably already was mocking him in that shitty green head.

He looked away, down at his shoes, and very firmly told himself he _wasn't sulking, goddammit_.

"Sanji?"

Ramming the almost-forgotten-about cigarette between his lips, the cook then went searching through his pockets.

"…the fuck are my matches…?"

Not that he could use them anyway.

"Oi, Sanji."

"…just had to get a nicotine freak-out right when I can't do shit about it…"

His long fingers fumbled, trying to open the box and pull out a match without dropping the lot of them. But even if he did manage to get one out, how the fuck would he light it? He might get away with holding the match with his teeth and dragging it against the box's edge, but somehow he saw that ending in disaster.

Goddamn Chopper and his lack of bandages…

Suddenly, large hands appeared in Sanji's vision, taking the matchbook out of his lax grip with ease, pulling out a single stick, and lighting it with a quick flick of a wrist. Those blessed hands held the blessed match up to Sanji's blessed cigarette, and within seconds, toxic smoke was billowing into his lungs soothingly; his mind feeling a little less frayed.

He sighed quietly in relief.

"Now are you gonna answer me?"

The relief was relatively short-lived.

"I don't have to tell you anything, marimo."

He _wasn't pouting_.

Zoro snarled slightly, hands that still held the cook's matchbook reaching up to grip fiercely at his spiky hair.

"You are so fucking _frustrating_! Why is it whenever I want to know something, I've gotta drag it out of you like a goddamn anchor!?"

Sanji puffed at his smoke and went about ignoring him, scowling at his injured arm. The cream on the stitches was starting to dry. Where the hell was Chopper with those bandages?

A low noise, more irritated than anything, and a strong hand grabbed Sanji's chin, jerking his gaze upwards. Zoro frowned, eyes searching and severe, and Sanji was really starting to get tired of how those damn eyes always made him do stupid, embarrassing things.

"Sanji," he said, quiet but firm, "Why would you bother fighting so many guys if they were nobodies?"

The cook sighed, dropping the gaze, but resigning himself. For all his stubbornness and resistance, Zoro would wear him down and get it out of him eventually. It was tiring, and just down-right stupid to make it last longer than it had to.

"Why do you want to know so bad?"

But he could still be difficult for a _little_ bit longer. He was Sanji, after all.

"Because if that asshole had aimed a little lower, it wouldn't have been just your arm; he would have split your _hand _in two, dumbass. And you wouldn't have even stopped him, because, 'it was a lucky shot,' and 'things just happen.'" The swordsman's frown deepened, and Sanji shivered slightly at the intensity he saw in those dark eyes…at how seriously he was taking this.

As much as Sanji wanted to admit he wasn't ashamed, and however much he wanted to deny that he _wasn't fucking flattered at all_, it'd be a lie, and Sanji didn't fucking lie about shit.

But it wasn't like he had to admit it to the marimo asshole.

"So tell me why you did this," Zoro finished, eyes never letting up their deep scrutiny.

Sanji sighed, a large clump of forgotten ash dropping from the end of his cigarette that was close to death. So he stubbed it out on the underside of his shoe and started fishing out another one.

"Some chump bounty hunters were looking through wanted posters near the harbor," he said, placing a new stick between his lips. Again, Zoro struck a match and lit it for him, and Sanji had to ignore the pleasant warmth in his chest if he was gonna keep talking.

"Assholes came across yours in the pile, and they started talking. One of 'em pointed at the _Merry_ and said you were probably in town, and hey, shouldn't they try and take you on? The others guys punched him; said they'd never go after your bounty in a million years."

He took a draw on his cigarette, hating Zoro in that moment, for making him do such annoying shit, but hating the embarrassed burn in his cheeks even more.

"They said they'd never dare, because you were a monster."

A brief moment of silence.

Sanji contemplated his shoes.

Zoro made a strange choking sound. "What?"

"You heard me, bastard," the cook muttered, looking up into eyes that were now blank, and slightly stunned. "I got pissed and kicked their asses. That's the story. The end. Now go fuck off."

"Hold it, that doesn't make any sense," Zoro said, frowning again, but more confused than anything.

"What's not to get, dumbass?" Sanji cried, getting more pissed and more embarrassed at having to _explain his fucking explanation_!

"But you call me a monster all the time!"

Sanji growled, unable to believe how retarded his fucking moron could be, and he yanked the fresh cigarette out of his mouth, raising his bad arm to grab Zoro's shirt collar and drag the fucker into a heated, pissed-off kiss. Teeth dragged unflinchingly over skin, Sanji forcing his tongue in the bewildered swordsman's mouth, taking that heat and taste that made him dizzy and want, dominating the larger man, claiming what was his, and proving once and for all that, though Sanji irrefutably belonged to Zoro, Zoro belonged to Sanji just as much.

And just as quickly as he swooped in, Sanji pulled back, resting his forehead against Zoro's as they panted and shared each other's breath. And when he looked up, Sanji nailed the swordsman with his own hard, blue glare.

"_I_ am the only one who calls you that. Got it?"

Zoro blinked, mouth open slightly like he wanted to say something, but before he ever got a sound out, the infirmary door swung open suddenly, and Chopper took one look at them, and the bandaging that slowly slipped from Sanji's arm onto the floor, and the small rivulets of blood running from some of the stitches he'd torn in his earlier fervor.

The two men swallowed in unison.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Chopper muttered murderously as he none-too-gently re-stitched the cook's gash.

Sanji puffed his cigarette and felt much less bored and irritated than he had a few minutes ago, even if his mending procedure had started all over again from the beginning, and he was going to be late making dinner.

The image of his blushing monster sulking out the door as a severely pissed-off Chopper scolded him like a damn child was more than enough to keep him entertained for the next couple of days, at least.


End file.
